


Cargoes

by keswindhover



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:24:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keswindhover/pseuds/keswindhover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did Tara get to college, despite her daddy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cargoes

Tara Maclay sat in the basement of her daddy's house, trying not to cry.

Her daddy and her brother Lonnie had taken the truck and were off in the next town, which meant she had a few hours to herself, at least, before she needed to start on the dinner.

She looked at the little cedarwood box that lay on the concrete floor in front of her. Her mom's, and left to her, not her daddy. Her mom had pointed her to the box the week before she'd finally had to go into hospital, told her to keep it safe. Witches' things. Mom had renounced witchcraft she said, careful to keep her demon side under control, and had taught her daughter to do the same. But still, she'd never given up this box of magic items. Just kept them quiet under the bed, gathering dust. And Tara had done nothing with the box either, except move it down into the basement to keep it safe, when they'd emptied her mom's room down to bare board and mattress.

Her mom had been dead nearly a year now. As the months ticked away towards her 18th birthday, she'd been thinking more and more about college. It had taken a huge amount of nerve to even think about going, but now her mom was no longer there, the urge to leave, to get away from the stifling atmosphere of the Maclay house, had become almost unbearable.

And as far as she could tell her daddy hadn't spent her mom's money on anything. The house was the same, the truck was the same - and they hadn't got a mortgage or any other kind of loan it might have been used toward, because her daddy didn't hold with debt. And she knew her mom had left them - well, her - $5,000.

She hadn't known if $5,000 was enough, though, or too much, or what. In fact she'd only had a very hazy idea of how much $5,000 was worth - the family didn't deal in dollars much. So she'd started yesterday afternoon by doing the unthinkable. She had gone voluntarily to talk with a school counsellor, Mr Jarndyce. And the impossible had seemed to result. She'd gotten advice she really needed.

When she had finally gone in - after an age of nervous dithering outside his door - he'd been real helpful and nice. She'd got her first shock when she shyly mentioned her inheritance, and he said it was too small a capital sum to even figure in the calculations. But then he'd told her about State support, and together they'd looked up fees, and compared assistance packages, and the thresholds for parental income. The end result was that if she went in-State there just might be enough in Pell grants, and scholarships, and a Work Study job for her to afford it. She might have to take out a few student loans, especially after her inheritance ran out, but she wouldn't need to mortgage her whole future.

And she'd come away with a sheaf of forms for her daddy to fill in - and a sinking sensation in her stomach as she realised that he never would do it. So the day had ticked away, her 18th birthday had dawned, and finally, this morning, she had taken a deep breath, tried to ignore the fluttering in her stomach and the stutter in her voice, and shown him the forms, and talked to him about her hopes for college, a small local one somewhere in California that didn't cost so very much.

And he'd said flat out they couldn't afford it, even if everything was paid for - because he needed all the family earning, not learning. And then, he'd leant forward, and lowered his voice, and reminded her about her demon - how she couldn't risk unleashing that. And she'd seen an endless succession of days ahead of her, all the same, working on the farm or a store in town, looking after her family - no friends, no skills, no interests, no life.

Tara reached down towards the cedarwood box, and then stopped, looking at her hand stretched in front of her. Very pale it was, with long white fingers. It looked harmless enough. And she knew her face was pretty inoffensive too. Hard to believe there was some ugly rippling monster inside, straining to get out. Although sometimes when people did things, said things, she felt so angry ... Her mom had taught her meditation though, to turn rage aside. She'd learnt it very well.

So what had she done when her daddy had taken the forms, and torn them in two? She'd gone and washed dishes until he and Lonnie were gone, and then come downstairs to cry in the basement, that's what. She looked around at the bare walls. She'd come here to cry for her mom often enough, but today she was crying for herself, and it wasn't any easier. She looked at her mother's little box again. What was in it? Eye of newt and toe of frog? After another hesitation, she finally reached forward, picked up the box, and gingerly prised it open.

There was a faint puff of air, and a sensation of pressure in her ears. She drew back, startled.

"Hello dear."

Tara dropped the box with a little scream, a jumble of items falling out on to the floor, and clattering onto the concrete. She peered into the gloom, heart thumping. An indistinct figure was standing in the shadow in front of her, clasping some mysterious object in its arms.

"Hello, dear," said the figure again. It stepped forward, and resolved into a small grey haired lady with a bright, inquisitive expression, wearing a frankly very regrettable lavender shellsuit, and clutching a fluorescent pink rucksack.

Tara stared. "Were you in the box?" she asked, tentatively.

The strange lady raised an eyebrow, and looked at the cedarwood box dangling from Tara's hand. "Isn't that meant to be lamps?" she said mildly. "And no, I'm not a djinni." She smiled and held out her right hand, shifting the rucksack to her left arm as she did so. "My name's Miss Elinora Climpson. Interdimensional Traveller. It's my job to make prophecies work."

"Are you a witch?" asked Tara, still worried. Miss Climpson kinda looked like a witch - except for the shellsuit, and the rucksack, and the- Tara looked down- and the fluffy mules on her feet. She looked up to meet Miss Climpson's expectant gaze again.

"Would that be a problem, dear?"

Miss Climpson was still holding out her hand expectantly. Tara blushed, and reached out awkwardly to shake her hand. As their palms touched she thought she felt a faint tickle of energy, and she pulled her hand back sharply, and rubbed it unobtrusively on her skirt.

"Um, would you care for some lemonade, or tea maybe?" she asked, rather hopelessly. Did you offer interdimensional travellers tea? She had no idea.

...

Apparently you did offer interdimensional travellers tea. Miss Climpson had accepted with alacrity, and they were now ensconced the kitchen, sipping from tea cups and nibbling home made cookies.

Tara looked at the open cedarwood box on the table. She had scooped up the contents from the rough basement floor, and brought them all upstairs with her. It contained an assortment of rather grubby looking stones, a ring, and some little bunches of herbs. Nothing that really looked wicked, or even terribly exciting.

Tara took a breath. She wasn't quite sure how, but Miss Climpson had neatly deflected all her shy opening enquiries about interdimensional travel, and brought the conversation firmly round to the scene she had come upon in the basement. And maybe it was because she wasn't used to having an interested audience, who wanted nothing more than to hear about her, and her problems, or maybe it was Miss Climpson's resemblance to Miss Marple, who featured in her favourite viewing on Sunday afternoons, but in any case she had found herself pouring it all out. Her mom, college, the $5,000, in-state tuition fees, Pell grants, her daddy, her 18th birthday. And even - slowly and halteringly, and after she had ground to a halt more than once - her witchy ancestry - and her demon.

"As a matter of fact," said Miss Climpson, "I'm part demon myself. And it's never done me any harm. She leaned forward and looked at Tara critically.

"Have you had any homicidal impulses toward anyone except toward your family, teachers and co-students? Felt the desire to drink the blood of any local livestock? Have you turned green or scaly, or sprouted horns at any point?"

Tara shook her head.

"Well, I wouldn't worry about it then if I were you," said Miss Climpson. "And as for the witchery ..." She tapped the cedarwood box, "You've got some simple tools here, perfectly sound, and I can give you this." She rootled around in her rucksack for a moment, and produced a slightly battered copy of 'On The Road' by Jack Kerouac, frowned at it, shook her head, and put it back. A second dig into the pack produced a tour guide of Venice, also rejected. At the third attempt Miss Climpson gave a satisfied, 'ah!' and handed Tara a neat little black book, with a gold inscription, 'Introductory Incantations and Splendidly Simple Spells'.

"Every young witch should have a copy," said Miss Climpson, rising to her feet. "You have no idea how much trouble could have been avoided over the centuries if certain witches had bothered learning even the basics." She pressed it into Tara's hand, "Happy birthday, dear."

Tara accepted the book, and looked at it doubtfully.

"I think you'll enjoy reading it," said Miss Climpson, "I put in some jokes in the boring bits."

Tara stared. "You wrote it?" she said, impressed.

"I did," said Miss Climpson, looking rather pleased with herself. Then she took a last sip of her tea, and put the cup down with a decisive gesture. "And now," she said. "Let's see about getting you into college." She rose, and took a packet of coloured chalks out of her bag. She smiled encouragingly at Tara. "And now you get to see a spell in action." Tara leaned forward, interested.

Miss Climpson looked at Tara's rapt face, frowning in concentration over the chalked symbols that were rapidly appearing under her own expert hand. She sighed. Tara seemed such a nice, gentle girl - and she was going into danger, maybe mortal danger. But still, prophecies were prophecies, no avoiding them. Tara Maclay had an important part to play in the world, starting this summer in Sunnydale, California - and she, Elinora Climpson, had the job of making sure she got there. She marked her last symbol with a little flourish, and spoke a word. There, she thought complacently, that should cut through any silly bureaucracy standing in the way.

...

Tara sat in front of Mr Jarndyce, Miss Climpson beside her. She shifted nervously, and held out the torn forms. "He-he won't sign it," she said.

"Why not?" asked Mr Jarndyce, surprised. "I know you said he felt he couldn't afford to send you. But he wouldn't be required to pay any of this. All he has to do is sign the application, because you're a dependent student."

"Not any more," said Miss Climpson. "She's eighteen now. That's why we've came in here today. Now that she's become an adult she can sign the declarations for herself."

Mr Jarndyce stared back at her, wondering vaguely why he'd never heard that the Maclay girl had a English aunt who seemed to have wandered in out of an episode of Masterpiece Theater. And what that funny purplish thing she was wearing was called. He shook his head, dismissing that as irrelevant. "You have to be twenty-four to be considered independent," he explained.

"Twenty-four!" cried Tara, looking appealingly back and forth at Mr Jarndyce and Miss Climpson. "That's crazy. There's no way my daddy would support me until I'm twenty-four! He wants me to help support him and the rest of the family now."

Mr Jarndyce sighed, and turned back to the computer. "Let me see. I think there are some circumstances where a younger student can be considered independent." He scrolled slowly down the screen. "Have you ever been in the military?"

"When would I have had time to do that?" cried Tara, "I've been right here in class! That's how I got all these grades."

"And they're very good," said Mr Jarndyce brightly, looking down at the application form in front of him. "But I just checking to see if maybe you'd signed up but been kicked out of boot camp or something like that."

"Uh, no," said Tara, clenching the forms nervously. She tried to crane her neck to see the words on the screen.

Hmm," said the counsellor eventually. "Well, do you have a baby?" Tara shook her head dumbly. "And no resident husband either." Mr Jarndyce smiled at her over his spectacles. "I don't suppose you ever ran off to Vegas with some good-for-nothing boy and wound up in a weddin' chapel?"

"Trust me," said Tara, "that's not like me at all."

Miss Climpson snorted. This interview was not going at all as she had expected. Could it be that the Department of Education was impervious to sympathetic magic? She could break into their computers and fix the records if entirely necessary of course - but that was so crude! She thought hard - what could she do?

"No." Tara shook her head. "All I've ever done is go to school and work to get good grades and look after my family and keep out of trouble." She huddled in her seat, folding her arms protectively over her chest.

"That's a pity," said Mr Jarndyce, giving his head a little shake. "Or rather, it's admirable of course, but ..."

"Do I understand?" asked Miss Climpson suddenly, "that if my, er, niece Tara here had done any of these undesirable things, then the federal government would think her responsible enough to apply for aid on her own? Whereas, because she hasn't done them, she is regarded as irresponsible?"

"It's not so much..." began Mr Jarndyce.

"Because that is just demned silly!" said Miss Climpson, her accent becoming more pronounced as her temper rose. She got up and took a quick turn around the office.

Mr Jarndyce stared at her feet. Were those slippers? "It's the law," he said, "common sense doesn't come into it. And I'm afraid there's no way round it."

"Oh no?" said Miss Climpson dangerously, and she rootled around in her ugly rucksack, and drew out a packet of coloured chalks.

Mr Jarndyce looked on, bemused. What on earth was the weird old broad going to do with those?

...

Tara gazed doubtfully at the marriage certificate. It had a picture of the Princess Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas on it, and was signed by the Reverend Elvis Presley at the bottom. Apparently she'd married some guy called Jason Alexander last February, and he was now doing time in San Quentin for stalking a pop star. Who knew she'd been having such a lively time? Not her, for sure. She pushed the certificate into the large buff envelope, together with the application forms, which she had neatly taped back together, and pushed them into the mailbox.

"UC Sunnydale, here I come," she whispered. "If I'm very, very lucky, and the people at the Department of Education are really, really dumb about cross checking stuff." And then she walked off down the street, hunched into her coat, heading for her big adventure.


End file.
